An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loth to part.
Truth never was indebted to a lie
Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.